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by Ursula Whitcher

Time is only distance. I’m choosing a flight
for your funeral, shuffling those tiny red eyes.
If I pick the right flight, the half-house
on pilings is whole. The tide flows out
and then in. My father climbs stairs made of tires.
He is eight. A bramble grows in the center
of the step. He pulls it out by the thorns.
I unroll my sleeping bag, on the deck
where the house was. The tide’s coming in.

There are little dog-sharks in the water.
A second house washed on the beach.
We balance on deck and throw fireworks down
so they spin, green lights under water.

Featured Poet of the Month Ursula Whitcher
Ursula Whitcher grew up in the Pacific Northwest and now makes do with the shores of a Great Lake. Subscribe to letters about Ursula’s writing at or pick a network at

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